


Being Alive

by passionate_crimes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Company, Freeform, M/M, Song fic, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionate_crimes/pseuds/passionate_crimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he’s ten years old, Sherlock promises himself he’ll never fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being Alive

Sherlock Holmes figures out at a young age that Love does not get you anywhere.

As a young boy, he hides behind the bookshelves in their library, and watches as his father and mother scream at each other, and hears his father sob against the books.

Later, the man is found dead with a fired gun in one hand, and a note in the other. They never let Sherlock read it, much to his annoyance.

He watches as Mycroft, just a surly adolescent, is told by an older man that he’s lovely, that he’ll take him far away, and never let him down.

And then he disappears, stealing Mycroft’s love and virginity with him.

Sherlock hears Mycroft cry himself to sleep for weeks after that.

When he’s ten years old, Sherlock promises himself he’ll never fall in love, because having gathered all the evidence, he can theorise that it never ends well.

-

Then John H. Watson limps into his life, and takes control of it at more or less the exact velocity of a bullet speeding through a window into a cab driver’s chest.

A single shot, and all of Sherlock’s assumptions and thoughts of the world are torn to threads.

A broken soldier, a broken man, who nevertheless is somehow able to save Sherlock’s life and absolutely captivate him in a single evening.

It’s that same night that he feels something, something nagging at the corner of his heart as John laughs and stuffs far more chow mein into his mouth than can really be considered proper.

He ignores it for the time being, and dismisses it. It cannot be love, because love is possessive and painful, and this feeling is full of glee and wonder. Love ruins sleep, and steals your life, but Sherlock welcomes this, this change, and he has been sleeping better now than ever before in his life.

\--

_“You don’t think there might be something more to it?” a useless therapist scribbles in her notebook and looks up to a sullen, angry fourteen-year-old Sherlock._

_“Is that all there is to it, in your cynical little mind?” Victor Trevor raises an arrogant eyebrow, and chuckles before taking another drag from his joint._

_“You know, darling,” Mummy Holmes purrs to the bored, sullen, angry, now twenty-three-year-old Sherlock. “You have so many reasons for not being with anyone, but, sweetheart, you don’t have a single reason for being alone.”_

_And John smiles, and whispers “Fantastic...” with amazed, pleased eyes._

Sherlock watches in uni, as all of his ‘mates’ decide the easiest way around the love issue is to just shag each other, with no attachments.

And Sherlock watches as an attachment forms, each and every time, and whatever relationship there had been before was completely destroyed.

It’s extremely entertaining. He and Victor take bets on how long each new couple will last. Sherlock wins every time, of course, and Victor always makes a scoffing, whining noise before giving him his bag of cocaine, or vial of heroin.

It’s almost comical when their own relationship eventually turns sexual, only to fall apart within a month.

-

John Watson owns and wears a collection of the ugliest sweaters Sherlock has ever seen. He’s almost tempted to set fire to them, just to see if they scream or profess their love to Satan before turning into ash.

When Sherlock mentions this to him, John looks shocked for a moment, then grabs the end of the sweater he’s wearing (gray, wool, with rather sloppy and frightening-looking sheep crocheted along the hem), and mumbles “my mum made this for me,” in a devoted, defensive tone.

Sherlock’s heart melts, and he almost kisses John right there.

No, no, no. He can’t do that. Because if he loved John, if John loved him, it would be horrible. John would need him, always need him. He would soon learn everything about Sherlock, even the things that he has locked away and refuses to look at.

Their relationship would change rapidly, never remaining the same, keeping them always in motion.

It would be hell.

\--

_“You see what you look for, you know,” another useless therapist jots down. The twelve-year-old, voice-changing, chagrined Sherlock glares daggers at her._

_“You’re not a kid anymore, Sherlock!” Mummy walks past the nine-year-old, who’s situated on the library floor, screaming, and pounding on the carpet in an angry tantrum. “You’re never going to be a kid again, kiddo!”_

_“Well, of course it’s not going to be perfect,” Mycroft says, knowingly smirking at Sherlock from across the back seat in his bloody car. “The only thing you should be afraid of in this situation is that it may never come to be.”_

_“You insufferable sod!” John cries, spraying the fire extinguisher at his drawers, currently aflame, before turning to Sherlock and spraying him with the foam as well. Sherlock jumps back in surprise, hands flying to his face. “I should kick you to the curb and change the locks!” He exclaims, yet there’s a twitch of a smile, and his eyes gleam with almost amusement._

He prefers to be alone. His mind is at peace, or the most at peace it can be. The rioting noises in his head don’t stop, the pull and push of knowledge, the loud screaming of boredom, or the need for something to _do_ don’t go away, but at least there is not the added noise of morons and idiots to contend with.

Besides, the resonating roar of his mind can be easily silenced, with the use of cocaine.

For a while, when he is first on his own, Mycroft visits, to make sure that his brother stays on the right path (he doesn’t), and is doing well (he isn’t).

The visits stop after a certain night, the details of which Sherlock has erased from his memory. All he can remember is a self-inflicted glass wound on his own hand, and his brother leaving with a black eye.

The brothers do not speak to each other for the next five years.

In that time, Sherlock is left to himself, to destroy and kill himself, alone. Which he does, for four and a half years. He lives on the streets, injects himself whenever he deems fit, and solves the occasional puzzle when it is available.

They are the most miserable years of his life.

He finally cleans up, if only because Lestrade refuses to let him look at crime scenes until he does.

After that, life slowly begins to improve, at least from a certain viewpoint. He rents an actual flat, works on more crime scenes, and has stopped indulging in illegal substances. Mostly.

Most importantly, he is left _alone_. He plays his violin alone, he eats (on the rare occasions that he remembers) alone, and when he sleeps, he sleeps alone. Alone is what protects him.

Somehow, though, he still feels miserable.

-

John drools when he sleeps. Or, at least whenever Sherlock has the luck to see him sleep. Which admittedly, is not often.

Usually, it’s in the middle of a case, when Sherlock pulls an all-nighter to try to piece together the evidence and John tries to stay up with him, and ends up slumped at the desk.

There is a look of serenity about him whenever he sleeps, one that does not exist when he’s conscious, even when he’s relaxed and happy. John Watson carries the weight of the world, and only relinquishes it when he leaves the conscious earth for a while.

After a few moments, Sherlock remembers the health risks of sleeping in such a position. John will wake up with a sore and stiff back, he won’t achieve the proper REM cycle due to his discomfort, and will be grumpy for the rest of the day. It’s obvious what he must do, for John’s own sake.

The following morning, as Sherlock types the most recent soil samples into the search engine, he hears a distressed “Shit!” from upstairs, a clambering noise, and then John is rushing down the stairs in his dressing gown.

“I’m late, Sherlock! I was supposed to be there two hours ago!” John yells, his cheek creased with the imprints of sheets, and his eyes still swollen with sleep, despite their panicked movements.

“No,” Sherlock says evenly, taking a sip of tea. John stares at him in confusion. “I already called them. When you weren’t awake at your usual time, I explained that you were feeling under the weather, and that we had decided you should stay home and rest for a bit.”

John blinks, not comprehending. “Why...Why didn’t you just wake me up?”

Sherlock smiles, and goes back to his laptop, trying to ignore the hot flush in his cheeks and the ache in his heart.

If John ever notices that he awakens in different rooms than he’s fallen asleep in, he never mentions it.

After so many years of building up walls to keep out the rest of the world, it’d be a shame to bring them all down now, after so much work. To make an exception for John, just because he _loves_ him, would be foolish.

Besides, John would expect him to change, would expect him to be kind, to tell him things, to confide in him small, little things, and large, dark things that lurk in the corners of his past, which Sherlock could never do.

\--

_“What does all that mean?”  Sebastian Wilkes attempts to roll his eyes at Sherlock, but is so intoxicated with cocaine that he only succeeds in making a small circle with his large, dilated pupils. “You don’t make any sense.”_

_“How do you know so much about it? You’ve never been in love!” A twelve-year-old Mycroft exclaims, carrying a muddy Sherlock back to the house, back when they still got along, before the Fight, before they close up, and never talk to each other again._

_“It’s much better living it, than looking at it,” Mummy raises her eyebrows, and takes away her son’s half-eaten plate. Sherlock curls up into a ball at his seat, and reminds himself not to cry._

_“‘You will meet a tall, dark stranger, and will be swept off your feet,’” John reads from the small piece of paper, and takes a bite of his fortune cookie. He smirks at Sherlock, and raises his eyebrows. “Well, too late for that.”_

The kids leave him alone, at least for the first few years. At that point, there is still compassion in their hearts, and they figure there’s no harm in a boy who doesn’t like company, who prefers to look at dead rodents and watch bees all day.

It’s in third level that they discover that a single word can make a person cringe, and the joy that comes with seeing the despairing look in their victim’s eyes.

_Freak._

It’s in the third level that Sherlock learns that people are not good. That human kindness and goodness are myths, and that the pain will go away if he shuts everyone out and never attempts to have friends.

It’s in the eighth level, upon waking up sweating, sticky, and with the image of a male classmate stuck in his mind, that Sherlock realises that he’s homosexual. Which, along with his anti-social tendencies, serves to further alienate him from his classmates. He completely blocks them out to save face, and to keep himself from killing all of them.

He doesn’t identify as gay. Throughout his teenage years and his early adult life, when anyone asks him his orientation he replies with ‘homosexual.’

Because, to be gay, one has to be pleased with life.

One has to be happy.

-

John is always polite. Always polite to everyone, even when he’s telling them to fuck off.

Of course, he has to be, with Sherlock as a partner. Otherwise, they’d never get any cases done. Their teamwork reminds Sherlock of the various cop movies he saw in uni, the good cop, bad cop routine. Completely idiotic and dramatic.

But, he has to admire the man. Always nice. Even to him.

“Freak,” Anderson grumbles as Sherlock strides past him, leaving the crime scene.

Sherlock ignores him. The word is second nature to him by now, a drop in the ocean.

“Excuse me?” he hears John’s voice from behind him. It sounds almost angry. Sherlock stops and turns on his heels to see John glowering angrily at Anderson.

“What?” Anderson says self-righteously, crossing his arms. “Do you need something?”

“Yeah, actually,” John sneers, taking a step forward on his bad foot (at this point John still has a limp, but it’s fading. It’s fading fast), wincing, but not once losing the furious gleam in his eye. “I want you to shut the fuck up.”

Everyone in the crime scene, every police officer and detective, seems to stop whatever they’re doing to stare at John Watson, their mouths open in shock. Including Sherlock.

Is he actually defending _Sherlock Holmes_? Is he mad?

“I’m sorry?” Anderson asks, looking extremely surprised, yet still standing his ground. “What?”

“You heard me,” John responds coolly. ( _Military training, interrogation techniques, to be a cold-hearted soldier, terrifying in the presence of the enemy,_ Sherlock thinks). “Shut. The. _Fuck_. Up.”

Everyone is holding their breath by this point, waiting in suspense for the scene to unfold.

“And why should I?” Anderson’s voice becomes even more nasally in his question.

“Because, for starters, he’s not a _freak_.” The icy tone in John’s voice sends shivers down Sherlock’s back; he makes a mental note never to get on John’s bad side. “He’s just more intelligent than you are. And, if that’s your qualification for a freak, you’d have to call about half the planet that.

“Also,” he continues, “are you _really_ insulting the man who’s going to catch you a murderer? A bit rude, don’t you think? If I were him, I’d leave you all stranded here, with the next victim due to turn up in three days. So, do actually use your skull before you open your mouth, or, even better, don’t open it at all.”

Sherlock realises that he hasn’t breathed since John started speaking, and his lungs are screaming for air. He takes a deep breath, still unable to blink. This is impossible. No one has ever stood up for him before.

The silence weighs heavily in the air, no one daring to speak, no one daring to take their eyes off the two men staring each other down.

“Apologise to him,” John says, authoritatively, simply. An order. He stands with his spine straight in a military fashion, and crosses his arms.

Anderson blanches. “I-What?!”

“Now.”

Anderson rolls his eyes and turns to Sherlock, his face beet red with defeat. “Sorry,” he almost sneers.

Sherlock stares back at him, unsure of what to say. No one has ever apologised to him. He’s always the one to apologise. What does one say to that?

“Yes,” he says slowly, nodding his head. “Right.”

He glances around the crime scene. Everyone looks rather put out at the anti-climatic turn of events. Except for John, who smiles at Sherlock through his soldier’s mask.

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock asks, on the cab ride back. “You didn’t have to do that.”

John turns and gives him a strange look. “Why wouldn’t I? He was being rude to you. You shouldn’t let people be rude to you. Despite everything, you don’t deserve it. No one does.”

Sherlock shrugs, and turns back to the window, not wanting to say _‘yes, I do. Of course I do_ ,’ because he feels it would disappoint John.

How is he so nice? He must be mad. Some brain tumour, or an incurable mental illness, makes him see the best in people. There must be something, something that Sherlock will do that crosses the line, that gets him kicked out of the flat. Stealing a bus, screaming in the mall, setting fire to the flat, flushing fingers down the toilet, something.

But, no, so far, nothing. Sherlock is beginning to think he could fake his death and John would still take him in. John still trusts him, still stays with him.

They’d be terrified together. Always afraid. Of what would come next. Which one would get kidnapped, sent to the army again, shot by a stray bullet. Afraid of life.

\--

 _“Happy Birthday, darling,” Mummy says kindly, stroking Sherlock’s back. There’s sadness to her words, though she’ll never admit it. “Blow out the candles...And make a wish...Want something...Want_ something _...”_

_Sherlock is fifteen. Mycroft is long gone. Daddy is long dead. No friends, ever._

_Sherlock is fifteen, and he is completely and utterly, alone._

Someone who cares _, he thinks, as he takes a deep breath, and blows the candles out, each of them flickering desperately, as if holding onto life, before extinguishing into darkness._

Throughout all his life, Sherlock just wanted someone. Someone to be there, who would stay, even through his tantrums, his idiosyncrasies and mood swings, and his anger at most of life.

He wasn’t picky, just someone to sit next to him on the couch, and hold him as he cried.

Over the years, he had decided there was no one out there who would do that. That it wasn’t society who was at fault for never accepting him, as Mummy and Mycroft used to say, but _his_ fault for not being acceptable.

But John... he’s accepted him. He’s stayed. He’s stayed through Sherlock’s hissy fits, through his keeping eyes in the fridge and through his random changes in emotion. He has stayed as Sherlock roared his anger at the world.

God... he wants him. He needs him.

He loves him.

-

“Sherlock, you have a high fever,” John says, restraining Sherlock by the shoulders as he tries to jump up from the couch. “You shouldn’t go out. Rest, okay?”

“The case,” Sherlock mumbles against him. He almost solved it...

“They’ll still be dead tomorrow. _Sleep_ , for once in your life.” He wraps his arms around Sherlock tenderly from where he’s laying, still keeping him down, even with Sherlock struggling (military strength, Sherlock thinks). He makes him lie down, and puts a blanket on him. Sherlock is too disoriented to argue.

As John  tucks his shoulders into the blanket, he’s so close, Sherlock wonders what would happen if he kissed him. He allows himself to tuck his head into John’s shoulder, for just a moment.

Then he does it. He reaches up and kisses John’s cheek, which is cool against his fevered lips, is stubbled and rough, and waits for the reaction. Will he leave? Will he stay? Will he say something?

John pushes him down slightly, so his head is resting on the pillow, puts a hand on Sherlock’s temple, and smiles softly at him, something warm in his eyes, that Sherlock has yet to figure out.

“Sleep, okay? Get better.” He touches Sherlock’s chest lightly before leaving, for work, for a date, for something. He’s always leaving. But Sherlock supposes that’s okay, as long as he comes back.

Which he does, always.

They’d be afraid. They’d be terrified. They’d be in pain, angry with each other. They’d each put each other through hell. It’d be absolutely horrible.

But that smile...with a mysterious gleam in his eyes...Sherlock would go through all of it. The hugging, the pain, the lack of privacy, he wanted all of it, every piece of it, just to see that smile, if only once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Being Alive" from the Broadway musical Company, by Stephen Sondheim.  
> And mega thanks to [Innerspace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Innerspace) for beta-ing!


End file.
